


If You Bare Your Soul, Will I Find Mine?

by Easnadh



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Flirting, Lies, Mages, Magic, Manipulation, Sexual Tension, Smut, a magic tower, also, and raven (literally), because one of those options is not good (no really), dark-ish clarke and bellamy, like i said they start off in bad places, neither of them starts in a good place, that's not really the right order but anyway, will lies manipulation and control become honesty and trust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-03 11:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10966158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Easnadh/pseuds/Easnadh
Summary: The mage Bellamy Blake is wandering in the forest, directionless and alone. His sister Octavia is gone, heartbroken at the death of her husband and holding Bellamy responsible. He has no hope of finding her. Then, a strange spell lures him to a hidden tower and he is given something he never expected - the opportunity to find Octavia again. To get the information he needs, he just has to find a way to stay in the tower, all while hiding his magic from the powerful, guarded sorceress who lives there.Multichapter fic (around 10 chapters, I think).Come find me on tumblr! easnadh1.tumblr.com





	1. Chapter 1

“ _Caw_! _Caw_!”

The raven glared at Bellamy from a branch overhanging the path, its eyes bright and shining against the shadowy backdrop of the wood. Bellamy glared back, his gaze never leaving the bird as he guided his horse past the tree. He was far from eager to have his heavy wolfskin cloak stained by the creature’s loose bowels. For a moment, Bellamy considered channelling a bolt of fear towards the raven; nothing too terrifying, but enough to startle it from its perch. But the thought seemed petty and cruel, especially given the intelligent and judgemental gaze of the raven scrabbling along the branch above him.

When he was a child, Bellamy’s mother had told him that “gifts” deposited by birds overhead were Gods-given and a mark of good fortune. So, in that sense, he was far from surprised when he passed beneath the tree with his dark cloak unblemished. Nothing in Bellamy’s life had ever encouraged him to suspect the benevolent attention of any Gods. If anything, he was inclined to believe the opposite; he had their attention, but it was far from kind. Occasionally, in his more morose moments, he wondered if they were purposefully torturing him, twisting and warping his life’s path so that every choice he made, no matter how well-intentioned, led to tragedy. The idea was distasteful, but not because Bellamy believed he was cursed. Rather, he was discomfited at the idea of shifting responsibility from its rightful place atop his shoulders. Whatever the Gods’ intentions, it was he who had brought misfortune on himself and pain and suffering on others. Of course, he had always tried to do what was best, but that had rarely changed the outcome.

Bellamy rolled his shoulders beneath his cloak, his back curving beneath its weight as he slumped forward over the saddle. He had been riding for five days, in a roughly eastward direction. There was no poetry in the choice, no symbolism of the sun rising on a new day to mirror his new life. A bright future was unearned and unwanted. No, Bellamy was riding east simply because that was the direction his horse had taken when they had passed through the wooden gates of Fort Arkadia for the last time. He had relaxed his grip on the reins and the old brown mare had veered left, trudging slowly forward with its head bowed, a picture of either stoic determination or innate nonchalance. Sometimes, he wondered if the old horse had some particular destination in mind, some concept of home, the scent of which carried on the wind. It did not matter. All that mattered was what they had left behind.

Octavia had left Arkadia six days ago, but not before she had seen Bellamy one last time. The cuts on his face were still visible, the bruises marking the points where his sister's fists had landed only now beginning to fade. Of course, he could accelerate the healing; he was equipped with more than enough incantations to heal his face within a day. But part of him embraced the lingering pain. What was his mild discomfort compared to Octavia’s utter devastation? Her husband was dead and Octavia’s pain had consumed her. Her own magic, Heart-based, just like Bellamy's, had flared into an inferno of all-consuming rage. Not even Bellamy's magic could have tempered her anguish, even if Octavia had allowed him to try. 

Despite her rage, Octavia had not used her magic to harm him, which was a small but precious source of solace to Bellamy. Instead, she had relied on her fists alone to manifest her anguish. For his part, Bellamy had made no attempt to defend himself. In fact, he had offered himself up to her as always, no longer her shield from the world but, rather, its sacrifice. She needed to beat someone. Let it be him. She needed to draw blood. Let it be his. It was the least he could offer her. He had not meant for Lincoln to die; he would never have taken something so precious from his sister. But what good was that now? Lincoln was dead, just like their mother before him, Bellamy’s best intentions be damned.

Sometimes, Bellamy wondered why he could never feel anger towards Octavia, why he could not summon the heartfelt, burning rage that she so easily unleashed at him. Perhaps it was his own ever-present sense of guilt and responsibility that stopped him from reproaching her, even in his thoughts. Or perhaps it was his unshakeable, unconditional love for the little girl who had been placed in his arms when she was but a few moments old. Now, that treasured memory stirred only a profound sense of loss. The look in Octavia's eyes when he had seen her last had been terrifying. The sister he had loved was gone, never to return, even if he did manage to find her again. Of course, there was little chance of that. She had vanished without a trace. Like Bellamy, her talent was for Heart magic, but she had learned enough Earth magic from Lincoln to hide her tracks from most skilled trackers or mages. And there was no chance of her returning either; Bellamy had not needed to reach for her emotions to know that Octavia's parting words were heartfelt: _You’re dead to me_.

A muscle in Bellamy’s jaw twitched and the scabs covering his healing wounds pulled tightly. Any expression other than a blank mask was painful. Part of him embraced the blankness, the forced nothingness in his face. He _was_ nothing now. A shadow of a man, with no family and no home. 

The darkness beneath the trees deepened and Bellamy knew that the sun was close to setting. It began to rain, the water hammering off the forest canopy overhead. Despite the shelter the trees afforded, Bellamy drew his cloak closer about him, making sure his sword was well covered. A short distance ahead, a small path opened to the right, breaking away from the main track and meandering between the closely packed trees. Bellamy eyed his horse. The animal was bearing straight ahead, maintaining the same steady pace. Bellamy shrugged. One direction was the same as another.

_This way._

The Call came out of nowhere, and Bellamy had gripped the horse’s reins and turned it onto the smaller track before he even registered the command.

_Good. Come this way. This path is best._

If the horse was surprised by Bellamy’s sudden interest in their journey, she showed no sign. The mare trudged onward on the new path, head bowed and hooves dropping heavily on the packed dirt. Bellamy, however, was stunned. The Call was powerful, nigh irresistible, and yet it was subtle, a command disguised as a suggestion. As a mage, Bellamy had detected the compulsion instantly, but a normal human would have simply felt a sudden but natural-seeming inclination to change direction.

_Come. This way. Come to me._

The moment the Call first struck, Bellamy’s body had tensed instinctively. The other mage’s magic had thrummed through him, pulling him irresistibly along the track. Now, mindful of watching eyes, Bellamy relaxed his grip on the reins, maintaining his casual posture as much as possible. He had to feign obliviousness. No mage would have tried to summon Bellamy in such a blatant manner if they had known of his power, and their ignorance of his ability was an advantage Bellamy was determined to keep. But feigning relaxation was difficult, as the pull of the magic set his nerves on fire and his own power flared instinctively in response. For a moment he thought it might be Octavia, regretting her anger and calling him to her. But Octavia’s magic was raw and unfettered, a wildfire she used to sear those who crossed her. The flavour of this magic was different. It was sharp and controlled, heavily Mind-based, its subtlety knife-like. No, Bellamy was sure he had never encountered this particular mage before.

He tried to imagine how a normal human would react to this situation. Curiosity? Nonchalance? Complete and utter obliviousness? He frowned, wondering how any human, oblivious or not, could possibly wander down an unfamiliar forest path in the growing darkness for no reason and with no sense of alarm. Realization dawned. Only an aimless wanderer would respond to the subtle persuasion of the Call without confusion or fear. The mage had been watching him for some time.

Now, Bellamy was truly anxious. Who or what was lying in wait for him somewhere along this path? What did they want from him? He kept his head dipped, but scanned his surroundings from beneath his brows. His apparent obliviousness seemed to work; after a few moments, the Call’s intensity began to wane. It was still there, encouraging him onward, but the fire in his brain began to fade to a gentle flickering. The other mage was growing relaxed then, confident that Bellamy was fully under his control. Of course, Bellamy could simply shatter the enemy mage’s illusion of control by attempting to flee. But that would also reveal his own power, depriving him of his only clear advantage. And who knew who or what watched him from behind the trees?

Bellamy released a long, slow breath, resigning himself to following the mage's commands for now. He allowed the mare to amble along the track, comforted by the weight of the sword at his side and the arsenal of battle incantations in his brain. He had the element of surprise now and he was most definitely prepared to use it. Besides, if everything went wrong, this time Bellamy would be the only one dying for his mistake.

* * *

 

It was almost fully dark when the track eventually widened, opening into a large clearing. At the same moment, the rain eased. A burst of wings exploded from behind Bellamy’s head and a large raven swept out of the forest behind him, cawing loudly. Bellamy glared at it, knowing instinctively that it was the same raven as before. He felt petty vindication that his inherent suspicion of the bird had been justified.

The clearing was empty, but the raven flew directly towards the centre, its pace slowing and claws extending as if to perch on thin air. As Bellamy watched, the shadows in the clearing shifted and a large stone tower appeared. The raven landed smoothly on a windowsill towards the top of the tower, its small silhouette barely visible from below. It’s shrill caws echoed off the stonework and Bellamy could still feel its eyes upon him.

In the failing light, the tower was nothing more than a silhouette, but Bellamy guessed it was at least five stories high. He cursed quietly, unnerved by such a display of power. Cloaking a building of that size was no small feat. His foe was even stronger than he had expected. Still, it was too late to try to flee. If he revealed his magic now, he would be at the mercy of an unseen enemy ensconced within a tower and could be picked off with ease. As if to remind him of the other mage's power, the Call came again, more insistent than before.

_This is the tower you have been seeking. Come inside._

Stifling his scowl, Bellamy kept his expression blank and allowed the mare to continue forward. At the same moment, the rain began to slow to a drizzle.

Some outhouses nestled close to the base of the tower: two small cottages and a stable just large enough for two horses. They were neatly constructed from stone and thatch, and meticulously well kept. Bellamy’s mount needed no encouragement; on the contrary, its head perked up and its ears strained forward as they neared the buildings. Bellamy wondered what had captured its attention, his fingers inching towards his sword even as he quietly summoned his power.

The stable was open on one side, being essentially a roof over three walls, but its interior was in deep shadow. As they grew nearer, an inquiring whicker sounded from within. Bellamy’s mount called back, its pace picking up. He made no move to slow its movement, but eyed his surroundings warily until he was close enough to the building to see that a slender grey stallion was its only occupant. Bellamy dismounted quickly and led his mare into the shelter, still careful to act as calmly and naturally as possible. The Call was still there, of course, a subtle, wordless tugging at his thoughts.

Bellamy removed his mare’s saddle and bridle, taking his time. Then, he brushed her down and covered her with a thick blanket he found hanging on one of the walls. The horse ignored him, too busy nuzzling the grey stallion over the wooden partition that separated the stalls. The friendly whickering between the horses was oddly comforting, but Bellamy was careful not to lower his guard.

Finally, he could find no more reason to delay. The other mage, watching him through unseen eyes, seemed to think the same. The moment he set foot outside the stable the Call intensified, as if his summoner had grown impatient. It was disturbingly easy for Bellamy to stifle his will and allow himself to be drawn through the weak drizzle towards the looming tower. The Call was stronger than ever now, pounding through his blood and making his skin tingle. Bellamy bit back a groan. His muscles were tightening, as much from the Call itself as from the tension of restraining his own magic from flaring in response. 

The moment Bellamy’s hand touched the wood of the tower door, the Call hit him so hard he fell to his knees. It muted instantly, as if the other mage had quenched it hurriedly. Slowly, Bellamy pushed himself to his feet, unsteady on his trembling legs. At the same moment, the door swung open. The Call picked up again, careful now, but no less insistent. Bellamy frowned, but he could not afford to hesitate. It would not do to alert his enemy to his awareness. Still, he wondered at the sudden dimming of the spell. Had the mage miscalculated, infusing their summons with too much power? Perhaps their experience did not quite match the power they wielded. That would be a very dangerous combination indeed.

Armed with this new, unwelcome knowledge, Bellamy stepped through the door and surveyed his surroundings. The bottom floor of the tower seemed to be a storeroom. Various crates and barrels were stacked against the walls and in the middle of the floor. Oddly shaped metal implements protruded from some, baffling products of sciences that Bellamy had never been drawn to study. A lone torch burned next to a flight of stone stairs, which wound around the wall before disappearing onto the next floor.

_Come. Come upstairs now._

The Call was infused with impatience now, sending the nerves in Bellamy’s brain twanging. It occurred to him that he was going to be left with a splitting headache, provided he lived to see the morning. Of course, that could be the least of his problems.

Bellamy followed the Call with no sign of annoyance, doing his best to feign the expected daze. The stairs ended at a narrow corridor, curving around the outside shape of the tower. A door was open on his left, the flagstones reddened by the warming glow of a fire. He stepped inside, senses alert, but the room was empty. It was a small kitchen, with a wooden table in the centre and a large cook-fire burning in the hearth. The table was set for one, with meat and bread laid out on wooden platters and a goblet of wine poured and ready. Bellamy hesitated, still searching for the inevitable trap, but felt only a gentle push in his mind, propelling him towards the table.

_Eat...if you’re hungry._

The sudden freedom of choice was surprising, but unnecessary. Bellamy would have devoured everything on the table whether feigning compulsion or not. He took a moment to slip his damp cloak from his shoulders, hanging it over a chair and turning it towards the fire. Then, he settled in, angling his own seat so that he had a clear view of both the door and the window in the opposite, curved wall. He took a careful sip of the wine and was not surprised to find it dark and heady. He sighed internally, wishing he had the freedom to indulge, but knowing the risk was too great. Bellamy still had no idea what this mage was planning. In fact, the sudden hospitality was more confusing than anything. He wondered if this strange mage was simply lonely, living so far out in the woods. Or perhaps he was bored, murderously so, and this was just the opening round of some twisted, dangerous game. 

Bellamy finished all of the food in sight, finally satisfying his appetite after days of sparse meals on the road. He sat back in his chair, eyes lingering on the warm fire, allowing himself the barest moment of relaxation. There was a sound at the door; the scuff of a footstep. Bellamy's eyes flicked towards the noise, catching a fleet movement in the darkened corridor. He started from the chair, thrusting it back sharply across the stone flagstones as he surged towards the door.

“Who’s there?” he called out, his tone fiercer than intended. He was on edge, and the choice was between ferocity or fear.

Then, for the first time, he felt the other mage. Those skilled in Heart magic could sense the emotions of those around them and even influence them. Of course, other mages could set protection wards to prevent their emotions from being manipulated or controlled, and to stop another mage from even sensing their feelings. But Bellamy, reaching out instinctively, felt a clear rush of anxiety, which was quickly (but not fully) replaced with resolve. In an instant, Bellamy realized that the other mage was unwarded; so, his ruse had worked and the other mage believed Bellamy to be a simple human. Indeed, so long as Bellamy simply sensed other man's emotions but made no attempt to influence them, his deception should hold. He felt a surge of welcome relief, even as the Call snapped around him again.

_Come to me. I’m here._

Bellamy shrugged, barely taking a moment to consider. The mage’s defences were down and Bellamy still had the advantage of surprise. Resisting now would only waste that advantage, something that would be foolhardy against such a powerful opponent. Straightening his sword on his hip, Bellamy let himself be led along the corridor and up the next flight of stairs. To his surprise, the other mage’s anxiety rose as he grew nearer. Why feel anxious, when Bellamy appeared to be so thoroughly malleable and helpless?

There was another bright glow ahead, firelight spilling across the top of the stair. The air was heavy with the scent of sandalwood and wood-smoke. Bellamy mounted the final step and turned off the corridor into a warm, golden-hued room. As he entered the chamber, his gaze fell upon shelves of books stretching from the floor to the ceiling. His eyes moved with the curve of the wall as he passed through the door, reaching a large wooden desk standing against the windows. And it was then that Bellamy stopped surveying his surroundings, because every thought, every part of his body and mind suddenly snapped into sharp focus, and all of that focus was fixed entirely on _her_.

The word “princess” would have slipped from his tongue, if he hadn’t known what she really was. Her blond hair was long and gently curling, partly pulled back and twisted into a crown-like braid around her head. The bright blue of her eyes was highlighted by a satin indigo robe, the vee of the neck falling across her full breasts and dipping towards her navel. A simple belt hung around her small waist, a loose knot tenuously holding the robe closed. 

The sorceress did not move as Bellamy surveyed her, but he saw her fingers tense at her sides, ever so slightly. At the same moment, he felt her anxiety surge. Bellamy returned his gaze to her face and was surprised to see her eyeing him defiantly, her chin slightly raised. But even without his magic, he thought he would have recognized the slight uncertainty in her eyes, the hint of frailty behind her mask of fearlessness. A thought struck him, a conclusion borne from every one of his senses, all of his heightened awareness of her conflicting bravery and fear, her control and her anxiety: She was beautiful.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke or moved. Then, Bellamy decided to take the initiative.

“Good evening, my lady.”

The sorceress’ eyes widened in shock, as if she forgotten that he possessed the power of speech. The Call snapped around him again, but not before Bellamy caught a clear thought, accidentally projected. _I don’t want to talk._

Bellamy staggered, giving in to her power the way a normal man would. The sorceress' magic was as composed as ever, unwavering, but Bellamy could feel enough of her in it to read nervousness and uncertainty. For his part, he restrained his own magic, knowing that any attempt to influence her would reveal his own power. Then, the Call, which had simply been holding him in place, shifted.

Rather than the drugged state he expected, the Call began to infuse him with energy, stirring his blood. Phantom hands moved across his skin, sliding beneath his clothes to stroke his torso. Lips brushed against his ear while teeth pulled teasingly on his earlobe. A tongue traced a hot trail along his neck, and his hand raised instinctively to draw its owner closer. The part of his mind protected by his magic registered only confusion, even as his more primitive brain kept his eyes fixed on the sorceress, the dark of her eyes, the arc of her neck, the swell of her lips.

_Do you want me? I’m here and willing._

Bellamy hid his surprise, but only barely. The voice was seductive, the Call inviting, but the choice was entirely his. Indeed, the most defenceless of humans could freely reject the sorceress' offer. He wondered why, if she were prepared to give him a choice, she was bothering to use magic at all. 

For a moment, Bellamy considered revealing the truth about his own power, but there was something about the sorceress’ expression, tension mixed with fraility, that made him wary of provoking her. For now, her intentions were clear, and it would be a lie to say that he was not tempted. Yes, she was beautiful, but something else about her drew him in; a loneliness and sadness emanating from her and magnified by his Heart magic, so intense that it permeated the room and vied with the power of her Call. And, he realized, just as she didn’t want to talk, neither did he. He didn’t want to think, to remember, to explain. 

She was there and she was willing and, he realized, so was he.

His decision made, Bellamy relaxed, a slow smile curling his lips as he met the sorceress’ gaze. Then, he let his eyes sweep down her torso, slow and brazen, lingering first on her breasts and then on the curve of her hips. He saw her chest heave under his gaze, heard her release a long, shuddering breath, and felt his own breath stutter in response. His gaze returned to her face, tracing her soft, plump lips. They had parted slightly and, as he watched, her lower lip began to tremble. Carefully, he let his magic reach toward her, felt the strength of her desire, the intensity of her lust.

Bellamy closed the distance between them in two strides. His hand slipped around the woman’s waist and pulled her forward, their bodies colliding. His free hand cupped the sorceress’ cheek and guided her mouth to his, his eyes slipping closed as their lips met. He dragged her upper lip between his and felt the sharp graze of her teeth. In response, her hands grasped his shirt and pulled him closer, her tongue licking along his lower lip before sliding upwards and into his mouth. The touch of the sorceress' tongue against his sent shocks through Bellamy’s body, his hips grinding hard against hers as he pressed her back against the desk. He broke free from her tongue, biting at her lips, his fingers tangling in her hair. She mewled desperately as her leg slipped between his, her weight firm against him as she straddled his thigh. Bellamy's mouth moved lower to kiss her neck, even as his hand slid from her cheek to brush her robe from her shoulder. His hand swept down, fingers closing over her breast, and she gasped, grinding hard against his thigh.

Bellamy lifted his head to watch her face, drinking in the beauty of her expression highlighted by the warm firelight. Her eyes were shut, her lips swollen and open. He grazed his thumb across her nipple and she shuddered, trembling in his grip. A moan of pleasure escaped her, low and hungry.

“That’s it, princess,” Bellamy whispered.

The sorceress’ blue eyes shot open.

_No!_

The Push hit Bellamy so hard that he flew across the room, his back slamming against one of the bookcases. The force of the impact sent books and scrolls tumbling from the shelves. Bellamy staggered to his knees, ignoring the pain in his back as he instinctively summoned his own power. His mind was reeling, but he had no time to make sense of anything. It appeared they were going to do battle after all.

The sorceress’ Mind magic was powerful, but Heart magic was devastating when wielded well. And Bellamy could wield his magic very, very well. Mentally, he reached towards the sorceress’ emotions, intending to take her anger, rage, and aggression and use it to fuel his attack. But his probing energy found nothing of the sort. Instead, it dropped into a churning well of grief, guilt, and self-loathing. The force of the sorceress’ internal despair hit him like a second blow. The feelings were familiar, so much so that, for a moment, Bellamy thought he had accidentally magnified his own emotions instead of reaching for hers. But there was no mistaking the source of the pain. He pressed his palm to the floor to steady himself, his back bent and arms trembling as he struggled not to crumble under the force of the sorceress' anguish.

She was so _broken_.

A footstep sounded on the stone floor. Bellamy turned towards the noise, looking up to see the sorceress watching him. Her expression was conflicted, her brow furrowed into a deep crease and her eyes liquid, even as he felt her power push against his thoughts.

 _Confusion_.

The word was followed by a set of images. Memories that were half accurate, half untrue. Bellamy climbing the stairs, soaked through, disoriented and tired. Bellamy stumbling against the bookcase, dizzy and feverish. The lady of the tower, stepping forward to help him up, her hand outstretched.

Belatedly, Bellamy realized that the latter was not a false memory. Slowly, his vision cleared to focus on the small palm extended towards him. He grasped it lightly, allowing the sorceress to help him to his feet. She had retied her nightgown he noticed, the folds now crossing tightly below her neck. Even her long blonde hair now hung in a second curtain over her chest.

She was eyeing him cautiously, as if fearful of his reaction. Bellamy guessed she was wondering how well her confusion spell had worked, wary of him having lingering memories of their brief, intense moment of passion. So Bellamy did as expected and looked about the room with a questioning air. Indeed, he needed a moment to compose himself. Now that the Call was gone and he had accessed her emotions fully, Bellamy could sense the sorceress’ anguish everywhere. It enveloped her like a cloud and permeated the room, emanating from the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The entire tower hummed with grief, the air vibrating with sorrow. Bellamy felt his own pain surge in response to hers, beating a quiet, melancholy counterpoint.

The sorceress was still watching him, that little frown between her brows, so Bellamy shook his head as if to clear it, feigning confusion.

“I’m sorry, my lady...I don’t know what happened.” He realized that she was still holding his hand at exactly the moment she dropped it, stepping back to put some space between them.

“You entered my tower, looking for shelter from the storm,” she said. Her voice was deeper than Bellamy had expected, and softer, but her tone rang with authority and her gaze was firm as she attempted to establish his new truth. “You must have a mild fever. Climbing all those stairs was too much for you and you fainted.”

She gestured towards the bookcase, to the books and scrolls strewn across the floor. “You fell against the bookcase.”

Bellamy bowed deeply. “Please accept my apologies. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He found that the last part was true even as he said it. He didn't understand what had happened, but he would never want to add to any of the anguish that resonated within him even now.

The sorceress' answering smile was forced, her mouth curling upward even as her jaw tightened to hold back tears. "You didn't. It was...I was surprised, that's all."

Bellamy nodded slowly, his eyes searching her face. For a moment, she looked back at him, her pain naked in her eyes. Then, abruptly, she turned away, escaping his scrutiny to stare into the fire.

Her silhouette was stark against the firelight and Bellamy's memories surged, vivid and stirring. He wondered if the sorceress believed he had no recollection of what had really happened between them, or if she thought her confusion spell was enough to make him think any memories he might have were hallucinations. Regardless, he didn’t have to feign dizziness as he turned to take stock of the room, of the books strewn across the floor. The force of her Push, the intensity of her emotions, and the demands of her Call had all taken their toll on him. The rush of desire he had felt when he held her in his arms hadn’t helped matters either. It lingered still, and he struggled to quell vivid images of her soft flesh beneath his hands.

"You can sleep upstairs," the sorceress announced flatly, her face still towards the fire.

"Thank you. You're very generous. But first, let me at least pick up these books.”

“No! That’s not...”

But Bellamy had already plucked the nearest book from the floor. His eyes automatically fell on the title: _Healing Magicks for Lesser and Greater Ailments_. He placed it on the closest shelf, careful not to react. His eyes were already on its neighbour: _The Lives and Deaths of the Great Mages_. He turned to pick the next book from the flagstones, angling it subtly so the firelight fell on its title. _Earth Magicks from the Eastern Peoples_. His hand tightened on the heavy tome. Did this book have information that could help him find Octavia? He ran his eyes over the bookcase as if searching for the book’s proper position, noting that the shelves reached all the way to the ceiling and circled half the room. Almost all of the titles visible from his position were academic texts on magic. The sorceress' library was extensive, and if the book in his hand couldn’t help him, it was very likely that she had another that could.

There was movement beside him and the book was pulled from his grip. Bellamy looked up to see the sorceress frowning at him. He felt the pressure of a spell in his mind.

_History books._

Bellamy clenched his jaw, waiting for the Push that would send him back out into the night and on his way. For some reason, this powerful sorceress was hiding in an invisible tower in the middle of the forest. Now that Bellamy had seen her books, she was dangerously close to exposure. The best course of action for her was to confuse Bellamy further and expel him from the tower. But the Push didn’t come. Instead, the rain began to beat more loudly against the windows.

“You should rest,” she said. “The storm has made you ill and you need sleep.”

She hadn't used her magic this time and, for a moment, Bellamy actually considered arguing, but then thought better of it. The books weren’t going anywhere and, apparently, neither was he. He pushed himself to his feet. He was half a head taller than her and she had to lift her chin to look up at him. For a moment, his thoughts returned to the taste of her tongue in his mouth and the feel of her full breast in his hand. Then, he saw a bloom of colour flare on the sorceress' cheek and watched her gaze drop to his lips. Belatedly, he realized that he was not the only one still affected. The sorceress turned away, ostensibly to return the book to a nearby shelf. When she spoke, her tone was firm and even.

“Come, I’ll show you to a room.”

Bellamy bowed slightly, ignoring his dizziness. “Thank you for your hospitality, my lady.”

The sorceress nodded curtly before moving towards the door. Bellamy followed her into the corridor and up the next flight of stairs, making sure to keep his eyes on his footing and not on the tantalizing curve of her hips. His regret that he was not following her towards a bedroom under different circumstances was unwelcome but unsurprising.

The stairs brought them to another narrow corridor, the walls curving with the tower as on the lower floors. There were windows at intermittent intervals on the right hand side, coated with a layer of rain. Torches illuminated the passageway. They passed the first door on the left. Based on the wall of wards the brushed Bellamy's senses as he passed, he assumed that it led to the sorceress’ bedroom. The sorceress herself stopped before the second door.

“You can sleep in here. You will find some fruit, water, and wine inside.”

Her meaning was clear. Bellamy should have no more reason to leave the room that night.

“Thank you for your kindness.”

“You’re welcome. In the morning, you can be on your way.”

“Of course.” He offered her his hand. “My name is Bellamy. Bellamy Blake.”

The sorceress hesitated. Then, she reached out and touched his hand lightly, the pressure almost intangible. For a moment, Bellamy was struck by the contrast between the lightness of her reluctant touch and the strength of her grip on his wolf-skin cloak when she had tugged him closer to deepen their kiss. He swallowed, grateful that telepathy wasn’t part of a Mind mage’s talents.

“Clarke.” Her voice was quiet, reluctant. It took Bellamy a moment to realize that was her name.

“Thank you for your kindness, Lady Clarke,” Bellamy repeated.

The sorceress nodded in acknowledgement, her mouth forming that same, forced smile. Then, she stepped past him and moved towards the stairs, the silk of her robe brushing the back of his hand as she passed.

“Goodnight,” Bellamy called after her. She did not respond.

The bedroom was large and comfortable, with two of the walls curving to fit inside the tower. A wooden four-poster bed was backed against one of the straight walls and a small sitting area occupied the remainder of the room. The walls were hung with thick tapestries, while a latticed window was hidden behind heavy curtains. As Clarke had promised, there was food and drink on the table. A small fire burned in the hearth. Bellamy had seen no servants, but he was obviously meant to assume that some maid or serving man had prepared the room.

Bellamy shed his wet clothes and slipped beneath the furs of the bed. He reached out tentatively, searching for Clarke’s presence. She must have come upstairs to her own room at some point, because he could feel her through the stone wall, her mind tense and alert. He probed gently, knowing that she would not detect his power so long as he did not try to influence her. Still, he was careful as he opened his senses to her, wary of her overwhelming pain.

She was more controlled now, her distress carefully compartmentalized, locked away while she focused on something more immediate. Bellamy could guess where her thoughts lay. He felt confusion, regret, guilt, anxiety, and, gratifyingly, lingering desire. There was also an intense loneliness. It felt like a hollowness in her chest, her ribs compressing with each breath. Bellamy was all too familiar with that particular sensation. He almost sent her comfort, a simple burst of the warmth that could only be supplied by another human being, but caught himself in time. He shook his head, mentally berating himself. His response had been instinctive, but dangerous. Right now, Clarke was off-balance and upset, and he had no way of knowing how she would react to the presence of another powerful sorcerer in her home.

Mentally disengaging from her, Bellamy resolutely closed his senses to the emotions radiating from the neighbouring bedroom. Clarke's depth of feeling was surprising; most of the Mind Mages he had encountered worked to suppress their emotions as much as possible, finding that strong feeling hampered their ability to control others. But Clarke was brimming with emotion, so much so that she had the potential for powerful Heart magic. Bellamy wondered why she had not worked to suppress her emotions as other Mind Mages did, especially as she clearly had no compunction about employing the manipulation for which they were known. Thinking him an oblivious human, she had summoned Bellamy against his will and then altered his memories. Bellamy would have been angry, condemning her as a typical, arrogant Mind Mage, but he had spent too long alone and agonizing over his past actions to let that view to go unchallenged. Had he himself not used his magic to influence the emotions of humans in the past? He wished he could say his motives had always been pure, but recent events had made him regard his past decisions in a new light. He could not justify her actions, but nor could he justify his own. How he longed to return to the time when the world had made sense, when it had just been himself, Octavia, and their mother, united against the dark and hostile world. But life was not that simple anymore, if it ever had been.

The thought of Octavia brought his thoughts back to the library below him, to the store of knowledge that might hold the key to finding her again. But how could he gain access, when Clarke believed him to be a simple human and when she had already told him to leave in the morning? Bellamy sighed, a headache brewing as expected. Exhausted, he posted wards in his mind, designed to wake him if any compulsions were sent his way. It was simple prudence, protection in case Clarke decided to compel him to leave or to walk off the top of the tower in his sleep.

Despite his fears, sleep came quickly, his last conscious thoughts becoming a question. How had Clarke ended up hiding in a tower in the forest, broken and alone, desperate for company but utterly terrified of human contact?


	2. Chapter 2

Bellamy awoke after sunrise. The protective magic he had used during sleep had sapped his energy slightly, leaving him groggy and a little drained. On the other hand, the protection wards seemed to have been unnecessary, as no mental alarms had woken him. The fact that Clarke had neither tried to banish nor murder him in his sleep was comforting. Bellamy was not surprised, however. Although Clarke's anguish was intense, it was internalized, and he had sensed no aggression within her.

Pushing back the fur covers, he reluctantly dragged himself from the comfortable bed. The room had been warm enough to sleep without a shirt and even now, with the fire long dead in the grate, the temperature was comfortable. He wondered if Clarke's magic was at work there too, keeping the tower comfortable, even as he crossed to the window and drew back the curtain. To his disgust, he was faced with a beautiful morning, complete with a bright, shining sun beaming down from a clear sky. Bellamy's jaw clenched and he sighed in frustration. There was no easy excuse for him to stay past the morning. He shook his head, thinking of the large library below him and the many secrets it held. The key to tracking and finding Octavia had to be somewhere among Clarke's collection of books and scrolls. All he needed was to gain access, but to do that, he first needed an excuse to stay.

In any other situation, he would have simply used his Heart magic to magnify whichever emotion of Clarke’s most strongly encouraged her to let him stay. But there was no question of using that approach with Clarke. Any attempt to manipulate her would reveal his power instantly, and that was something he did not want to risk. At best, he would escape with his life. At worst, one or both of them would be killed in the ensuing battle.

Bellamy sighed heavily and stepped back from the window, catching a glimpse of himself in the long mirror that stood in one corner of the room. He look tired, the bruises and cuts mottling his face fainter than yesterday, but still visible. The sight of his bare chest, lightly muscled and scarred from a lifetime of struggle, brought back memories of the night before, of unseen hands caressing his skin and Clarke’s eyes, dark and inviting. He released a long, shuddering breath, forcing his mind towards his real, immediate problem and away from memories of Clarke's face, her eyes shut and mouth parted in pleasure, her soft breath growing rough and hungry under the work of his hands and mouth. But the memories lingered, and with them came an idea. The mirror reflected Bellamy’s smirk as the solution to his problem presented itself. Like all good plans, it was simple: he already knew which of Clarke’s emotions to work on so that she would let him stay, and he didn't need magic to stimulate it.

Bellamy washed and dressed with renewed vigour, noting the pitcher of fresh water near the wash basin and the clean shirt and new trousers folded on the table. He took the clothes as a good sign; Clarke was feeling generous. He took time with his appearance, dressing in the clothes she had left him: loose brown breeches and a white linen shirt. He rolled the sleeves up, leaving his broad forearms bare, and loosened the laces of the shirt so that the neck hung open to below his solar plexus. Then, he probed his environment gently. Oddly, he found only a faint hint of Clarke's presence somewhere below. His senses were being blocked, he realized. For a moment, Bellamy was alarmed, wondering if some involuntary magic-working in his sleep had revealed his secret. Then, a more obvious explanation presented itself: Clarke was using a ward to block sound from the floor below.

Intrigued, Bellamy exited the room quietly, probing first to check whether Clarke had placed a ward on his door. To his surprise, there was nothing. He checked Clarke’s bedroom door as he passed. Unlike last night, he now had time to truly take stock of the carefully crafted wards. Like every example of Clarke's power he had seen so far, their strength was impressive. No one could so much as brush against the door without Clarke knowing, and there was no chance of opening it without her permission or a set of extremely strong battle spells.

Bellamy was still marvelling at the strength of the wards and the power it took to sustain them when his senses detected another set, this time covering the top of the stairs. He nodded to himself, gratified to have read Clarke correctly. She was far too cautious to give him free rein to move throughout her tower. The wards covering the stairs acted as both an alarm and a buffer, and there was no way he could descend to the next floor without Clarke’s knowledge.

Moving as close to the warded area as possible without triggering the alarm, Bellamy used his magic to examine the spell carefully. Not only was it designed to alert Clarke of his movements, it also worked to block his perception. For a human, that simply meant that no sounds from below could permeate the ward but, for Bellamy, it also worked as a barrier against his extra-sensory probing. He realized that the ward must extend across the entire ceiling of the floor below, because he had been unable to sense Clarke clearly from the bedroom.

Fortunately for Bellamy, Clarke had set a spell to guard against a human, rather than a skilled mage. Carefully, he extended his power towards the ward, weakening it in the spot directly above the stairwell, while holding the strands of the spell in place to prevent the alarm from triggering. He felt her instantly, recognizing her now-familiar air of sadness. Prepared as he was, Bellamy still felt a pang of empathy towards her, and once more had to stifle his instinctive compulsion to ease her pain. Instead, he distracted himself by searching for any sign of surprise that might indicate she had sensed his use of power to weaken the ward. Finding none, he drew back, rechannelling his power to magnify the sound passing through the ward.

Clarke was talking to someone or, rather, someone was talking _at_ her.

“I don’t understand what happened, Clarke.” It was a woman’s voice, laced with frustration. “You were the one who wanted to bring him here.”

“I know. I just...It was too much.”

“Too much, how? I told you this was a bad idea!”

“Raven...” Clarke’s voice was tired and defeated.

“Clarke, you know that people are looking for you. Dangerous people.”

“Yes, I know, because you tell me every time you see an Ice Nation bounty hunter in the woods. You were the one who said Bellamy wasn’t one of them.”

“I said I didn’t _think_ he was one of them.” Bellamy heard Raven huff in annoyance. “Even _I_ can be wrong sometimes.”

“Raven, we watched him for two days. He's just a traveller. He’s not Ice Nation and he’s not a mage. If he were, he would have healed those bruises on his face.”

Bellamy was taken aback, but had no time to think of how his own despair had indirectly placed him in this situation. Instead, Raven’s next words drew all of his attention.

“Look, Clarke, you have to admit that you don’t have a history of trusting the right people.”

The pain that rolled from Clarke at the other woman's words swept up through the tower like a wave. Just like the night before, it seemed to penetrate Bellamy’s spirit, finding its partner in the anguish he himself carried. The muscles in Bellamy's chest tightened and he pressed a hand over his heart to quell its pounding, as he forced air through his constricting lungs.

The next thing he heard was Clarke’s voice, quiet but firm. He had no idea how she was managing to speak over the heartbreak she carried. “Well, this time, I’ll be the only one paying the price.”

Just like her emotions, Clarke's words resonated with Bellamy. He understood that sentiment only too well. Raven, however, was unimpressed.

“What about me?”

“You can leave. You can go whenever you want. Return home or go somewhere else, somewhere far away from here.” Clarke’s voice took on an urging tone. “Nobody’s looking for you, Raven. Nobody holds you responsible for anything that happened. You should go.”

Her words had the air of an old argument, and Bellamy’s assumption was confirmed by the stubbornness of Raven’s response. "I’m not leaving. I’ll only ever leave if you come with me.”

“Raven...you know I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t face them. I can’t just pick up where I left off. I can’t start a new life and forget everything I’ve done.”

There was a pause. When Raven finally spoke, her tone had softened. “Everything you did was for them, Clarke.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier.”

“Look, we both have our battle scars. But it’s time to get past them. People need you, back in the world.”

“No, they don’t. They’re safe now. I did my part to make that happen, and I paid the price for it. Now, I have to live with it.”

 There was the sound of a chair pulling back. Bellamy wondered if Raven was only now taking a seat, if she had been pacing the room before.

"If your plan is to spend the rest of your days wasting away in this tower, why did you force...what was his name?"

“Bellamy.”

"Why did you force Bellamy to come here?"

"He was travelling and I gave him shelter.” Clarke’s response was defiant, but it was clear that Raven’s choice of words had stung. "He just...he seemed lost. Alone." Bellamy could almost imagine her shrug. “But when he got here...I didn’t want to talk. Not about me or him, or anything really. There's too much and it's too hard." There was a weighted pause. "But that won’t be a problem for long, because he’ll be leaving today.”

Bellamy frowned. He had suspected Clarke might react that way, but it was still discouraging to have his fears confirmed. But then, Raven surprised him.

“Clarke...” There was a deep sigh. “I think you should reconsider.”

“What?”

“You’ve been in this tower for far too long, and it’s obviously getting to you. Maybe you should let this guy stay for a few days. Having someone else around might remind you what the world has to offer, and why you shouldn’t spend the rest of your life hiding from it.”

“Maybe it's better for everyone if I do, Raven. No matter what I do, someone dies. And the people I care about, the people who are care about me, they get hurt.”

“And they hurt you.”

Raven's reply had been careful, tentative even, but Bellamy felt a brief flash of Clarke's searing pain, before she clamped down on it, hard. When Raven spoke again her tone was gentle, almost apologetic. “Just let him stay here for a while, Clarke. Just so you can remember how it feels to be around other people when you're not making life or death decisions every day. And then...just take it from there."

"Raven..."

"You can't stay here forever, Clarke. I know you think people don’t need you. And you don’t say it, but I know you’re afraid that they don’t want you. But you’re wrong. On both counts.”

Clarke did not respond, but the tumult of feeling that radiated up through the tower made Bellamy sway on his feet. Regret, guilt, shame, grief, fear, and loneliness reverberated through his being, with only the faintest glimmer of hope, almost fully submerged beneath her other emotions. Each one was so familiar to Bellamy that they sent him reeling. This time, he made the mistake of thinking of Octavia. He remembered the look on her face when she told him Lincoln had died. He felt each one of her fists land again, and felt his heart break when she walked out the door for the last time.

Swaying on his feet, Bellamy withdrew his senses, restoring the ward as he did so. He steadied himself with an effort, drawing deep breaths to still his heaving chest. Distantly, he noticed that his cheeks were wet with tears.

 

* * *

 

A few long moments passed before Bellamy pulled himself together enough to wipe his face on his sleeve and steady his breathing. He thought of Octavia again, but this time with determination rather than grief. If he was going to have any hope of finding her, he had to get access to that library. He reflected on the conversation he had overheard and the feelings he had sensed from Clarke. It was helpful that Raven, whoever she was (he had his suspicions), was encouraging Clarke to let him stay. The woman had been right in some ways and wrong in others. Clarke was harbouring a deep and constant loneliness, but not just for someone to talk to. What she really needed was for someone to understand her. For his part, Bellamy already felt as if he did understand, and not just because he could sense Clarke's emotions. Despite their differences, they were alike in may ways, with shared burdens and shared wounds.

The knowledge was both jarring and worrying. Right now, Bellamy could barely handle his own pain, never mind being submerged in Clarke's as well. And since he couldn't risk using his magic to ease her anguish, that left him with little options. He would need to be more guarded, to try shield himself from her as much as possible, all while enacting his original plan. He scowled in distaste. He wanted to help, to heal in the only way he could, especially after having wrought so much damage in the past. But if he wanted those books, he had no other choice.

 _I'm doing this for Octavia_ , he told himself.  _My sister, my responsibility_.  

His own objections silenced, Bellamy took a breath and, with a final check of the ward, stepped forward. Now was as good a time as any to make his entrance.

He felt Clarke startle as he triggered the spell and wasted no time in descending the stairs. As he reached the entrance of the sitting room, unnatural rustling and popping sounds greeted his ears through the closed door. He knocked loudly. After a brief pause, Clarke responded, her tone even and noncomittal.

"Come in." 

Adopting his most charming smile, Bellamy entered the room to find Clarke seated stiffly behind the heavy wooden desk, her back rigid and her expression unreadable. The raven was scrabbling along the windowsill next to her, its wings fluttering as they folded into place. Both of them stared at Bellamy. The raven cocked her head to one side, unabashedly eyeing Bellamy’s chest through his half-laced shirt. Bellamy resisted the sudden urge to wink at her. At her side, Clarke was no less distracted, a flush blooming on her cheeks. Bellamy smirked and then bowed to her, deep enough that his loose shirt hung open to reveal his midriff.

“Good morning, Lady Clarke," he said, straightening.

“Clarke.” She cleared her throat, the corners or her mouth tugging into a stiff smile. The effect of her stony expression was somewhat marred by the blush on her cheeks. “It’s just ‘Clarke.’”

“Good morning...Clarke.” Bellamy smiled again, taking a moment to study his "host." The look he gave her was openly admiring, and not just because flirting with her so she would let him stay was the beginning, end, and entirety of his plan. No, she was as beautiful in morning sunlight as she had been the previous night, and the real struggle would have been in hiding his attraction to her. Clarke was wearing black today, a tight fitting corset over a long-sleeved blouse visible above the desk. Despite his basest urges, Bellamy did not linger on her the curves of her torso, choosing to study her face instead. She looked worried; he recognized the little crease between her eyebrows, that same frown he had noticed the previous night. More than anything, he wanted to run his thumb across the lines, to smooth the concern from her face. Her eyes held his for a long moment, but where his held admiration, hers were thoughtful and guarded.

The raven stirred on the windowsill, its claws scratching against the stonework. Clarke started, throwing a half-embarrassed, half-annoyed glance at the bird. She stood abruptly. “You must be hungry. There’s food in the kitchen.”

“I am, thank you,” Bellamy replied.

Clarke did not look at Bellamy as she moved past him, exiting the room and taking the stairs to the lower floor. Expecting no further invitation, Bellamy followed after, down the stairs and into the kitchen. The fire was lighting, the room as welcoming as the previous night, even more so now that it was filled with the scent of fresh bread and porridge. Wordlessly, Clarke moved to a wooden cupboard in the far corner. He heard her curse as the upper door of the cupboard stuck and crossed the room to help her automatically. She froze as he moved close behind her, her hand still gripping the cupboard knob. Bellamy hesitated too, suddenly distracted by the scent of lillies in her hair. The light fell on her neck and he caught a glimpse of a small mark below her jaw; the lingering trace of a bruising kiss. Now, it was his turn to flush, his fingers flexing at his side as he quelled the impulse to run his fingertips over the bruise he had inadvertently left. Instead, he placed his hand on the cupboard door, his fingers close to Clarke's but not touching.

"Let me help you." His voice was rough, the words taut and heavy.

Clarke stepped away, putting a few feet of distance between them. "That door always sticks," she announced with forced casualness. "The heat from the fire makes the wood swell, according to...well, so I've been told."

Bellamy did not respond, busy tugging on the door until it opened with a loud squeal to reveal stacks of wooden plates and bowls. Most of them looked as if they had never seen use, and it occurred to him that the cupboard door might stick less if it were used more frequently. He wondered how often Clarke went without eating, either from forgetfulness or lack of appetite. Bellamy knew how easily that could happen, having gone two days without eating a single morsel when he first left Arkadia.

To keep himself from looking in Clarke's direction and letting his concern for her show, he focused on placing two plates and two bowls on the table. Taking one of the bowls, Clarke scooped porridge from a pot over the fire, before flavouring the dish with honey and raisins. She placed the bowl on the table and gestured for Bellamy to sit.

“Thank you.” He closed his eyes as the sweetened, warm porridge hit his tongue. “This is really, really good."

He eyed Clarke, who was standing awkwardly next to the fire. “Have you already eaten, Clarke?”

For a moment, she seemed uncertain. “Um, no, not yet." She sounded surprised at the realization. "I was just making sure you didn't need anything else before I helped myself." 

Ignoring the lie, Bellamy responded warmly. “No. This is perfect, thank you. Please, eat with me."

Clarke smiled, genuinely this time, before preparing a bowl of porridge for herself. Bellamy noticed that she seasoned it with honey alone. She sat across from him, but concentrated her attention on her bowl.

“No raisins?” Bellamy asked, mostly to break the silence.

“No, I hate them.” She still wasn’t looking at him. “I don’t like dried up, dead things.”

The sadness rolled outwards from her once more and Bellamy responded without thinking. “So...you're telling me I'm lucky I showed up at your door soaking wet and only _almost_ dead.”

Clarke huffed a short, surprised laugh, her cheeks flushing, and Bellamy ducked his head to hide his answering grin. For the first time, he felt a lightness from her.

“You’re feeling better now?” she asked.

“Yes, much better, thank you. The rest did me good.”

"I'm glad."

They fell into a comfortable silence. For a brief moment, Bellamy was content, and then he remembered he was supposed to be flirting with Clarke, so she would either invite or compel him to stay. But Clarke's thoughts seemed to be following a different track.

“Where were you going?" she asked abruptly. "There’s no shelter for miles. Besides this tower, of course.”

Bellamy shrugged. “Nowhere.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow, her frown returning. She barely blinked as she worked a Compulsion, the command firm and succinct.  _Tell me the truth_.

“I was simply wandering.” Bellamy replied, telling the truth of his own volition. He wondered if Clarke feared he might be one of those hunting her. He studied the wooden bowl in front of him, but Clarke's eyes seemed to have a gravity of their own, magic or no. He met her gaze once more and held it. “All I knew was where I didn’t want to be. Where I couldn’t be.”

There was a silence, in which Bellamy agonized over his honesty. Despite Clarke's magic, a more convincing lie had been ready on his tongue, but he had been reluctant to use it. The irony of feeling uncomfortable being dishonest to Clarke, when she herself had lied to him from the moment they met, was not lost on him. For her part, Clarke simply studied him silently, her blue eyes piercing across the table.

“I know what you mean,” she murmured finally.

Bellamy thought back to Raven’s words, overheard through the ward:  _I know you’re afraid they don’t want you._ The question slipped out automatically. “How so?”

No sooner had Bellamy spoken than he regretted his question. A few friendly words and an awkward joke weren't going to make Clarke suddenly bare her soul to him. Still, for a long moment, she did seem about to respond. Then, her face shut down and her jaw clamped shut, just as Bellamy expected. She stood abruptly, plucking her bowl from the table and moving to the wash basin. When she spoke, she did not look at him.

“There’s a village to the east. If you leave soon, you should make it there by nightfall. The weather has cleared since last night, so there’s nothing to delay you.”

Bellamy released a quiet sigh through his nostrils, a muscle in his jaw twitching. _Stupid_ , he thought, _that was so very stupid_. Clarke still had her back to him, her hands working as she scrubbed at her bowl fiercely. With the utmost care, Bellamy extended his senses towards her. She was angry and upset, but it seemed to be mostly directed inwards.

“Clarke.” He struggled to find the right words. “I’m sorry if I offended you...”

“No, not at all. I just don’t want to delay you.” She turned towards him, her expression a mask of forced cheerfulness. “I’m sure you don’t want to find yourself lost in the forest at night again.”

Bellamy bowed his head, not trying to conceal his disappointment. “Thank you for your consideration, Clarke, and your hospitality. I’ll gather my things.”

 

* * *

 

All too soon afterwards, Bellamy saddled his mare and led her from the stable, his thick cloak already slung over his shoulders. He had not stopped mentally berating himself since he had left the kitchen. He was supposed to have been trying to flirt with Clarke, not interrogating her about her past. It was the pain they both carried, that odd kinship between them, that had caused him to lose sight of his plan. But he should have known better; like himself, Clarke was still too raw to speak of such things.

Bellamy cast a glance back towards the tower as he mounted his mare, knowing that Clarke was most likely watching him from somewhere. But the windows were dark and no flash of blond drew his eye. With a sigh, he wheeled his mare onto the path, his back towards the tower as he nudged the horse forward. He thought of Octavia and the books that lay a few floors above him. Once again, her parting words echoed through his mind. _You’re dead to me_. Those words had never seemed truer than at that moment.

The mare continued onwards, but Bellamy’s fingers tightened on the reins, slowing her slightly. There was no choice to make. He could not let his best, no _only_  chance at finding his sister slip away from him. Bellamy's mind raced, but his path was clear. He could not leave without seeing Clarke's library. Of course, his options were limited. He would ask to see the books. If Clarke said no, he would reveal his power and ask again. If she attacked him, he would fight back. There was a good chance she might win, given the extent of her power, but if she killed him, so be it. 

The first snowflake landed on the back of his hand, startling him.

Bellamy pulled the mare to a halt as more snowflakes descended, quick and heavy, as if someone had upturned a bucket of icy, wet feathers over his head. Bellamy shivered, watching in stunned surprise as the snow began to pile up on his arms and the back of his horse's neck. She whinnied shrilly, stomping her hooves and shaking her head in displeasure. All around him, on this bright summer's day, the ground was quickly turning white.

Bellamy turned back towards the tower, shaking the snow from his own hair while he struggled to peer through the sudden blizzard. As he watched, the lower door swung open, a bright torch flaring inside. He ducked his head to hide his smile, tipping his heels against his mare’s sides to direct her back towards the stable. Apparently, he wasn't the only one having a change of heart.

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually an idea that I had about ten years ago, but I recently realized it fits the characters of Bellamy and Clarke fairly well. So, I decided to make it into an AU as a fun side project while I work on my novel. I'm broadly looking at the negative effects of power struggles, deception, and manipulation on a relationship, but the story is mostly about the pain of fear and loneliness, the importance of trust and honesty, and the healing power of love.
> 
> Comments welcome!


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